The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  The Widow’s Confession

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

  The Silversmith’s Wife

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Sophia Tobin 2015

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Sophia Tobin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  HB ISBN: 978-1-47112-812-7

  TPB ISBN: 978-1-47112-814-1

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47112-815-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  To A.T.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Delphine’s letter, April, 1852

  I still remember the face of the first girl we found on the sands. I think of her name, and she is there.

  Her features have the softness of youth, marred only by the frown remaining on her brow, even in death. She lies on her back, a bright shape on dark sand, the folds of her white gown made translucent by the sea. That sea is coming to claim her, each wave easing forwards, then retreating, each retreat a little less than the one before. The water deepens around her almost imperceptibly; gently, it floats a few of her golden curls.

  I sometimes wonder whether my mind is playing tricks on me with this vividness. Perhaps, in reality, when we found her the hungry tide had already retreated from her, and the morning sun had begun to dry the sand. I suspect it is so.

  I could not paint her, if you asked me to. Even though I see her face so clearly, I could not describe a single line of it with charcoal or watercolour. The memory of her is stored in some other place; at the thought of her there is a jolt of emotion, but I cannot reproduce the memory of her. I can only feel it.

  My reaction to her and to the other dead girls surprised me. I thought that I had hardened myself and packed my emotions away; folded neatly, like the ballgowns of my youth, with dried lavender pressed in paper between them. Yet that summer, with its sea mists and storms, unlocked something in me. A thing I had not killed; just denied.

  I write to you now as Delphine Beck, and I write only because you have asked me to. Hitherto, if we are truthful, we have been little more than strangers. To write to you seems dangerously intimate somehow. The paper is passive; it accepts my words as you may not. But I believe you when you tell me that you have to know everything. If we are to begin our lives together, all concealment must be put aside, and sunlight let into a room which has been dark and cold for so long.

  My love, I promised you my confession.

  Here it is.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Edmund Steele went to Broadstairs to escape a love affair. It was the first dishonourable act of his life towards a woman. As the train crawled its way through a countryside deep in the lushness of late spring, he pictured the shape of Mrs Craven’s white neck when her face was turned away from him; remembered the sheen of the reddish-brown gown she had worn at their last meeting. And, knowing that she had expected him to propose to her, he felt the painful burn of shame, as though he had held his hand too close to a candle flame. I made her no promises, he thought, as the train neared the coast, and he watched the stuttering shadow of its outline on the ground as it moved on: I made her no promises. But he felt no better.

  At Margate Sands, Edmund hired a man with a cart to take him to Broadstairs, the horse sweating in the sun and switching its tail. They travelled through the deep narrow lanes of the countryside between the two towns. When they emerged from the green darkness of the last hedgerowed lane, onto the coast road near Kingsgate Bay, Edmund put his head back; felt the sunlight, warm and harsh, slick across his city-worn face. ‘Will you pull up for a moment?’ he asked the man. ‘I’ll pay you extra for the lost time.’

  The carrier found a stopping place near the edge of the cliff. There was a sharpness to the air, bitterly cold, but welcome to Edmund. He hoped the clean air would reach the depths of his lungs. He had wanted to see the sea: the distant breakers, the vast sky, and the curve of the tan-coloured sands beneath the bone-grey, crumbling cliffs.

  ‘Is it far to Holy Trinity?’ he said.

  ‘Less than half a mile. Past the North Foreland lighthouse over yonder, then we’re on the road to Stone, and near enough to the town. Come for a holiday, sir?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Edmund.

  The church of Holy Trinity and its parsonage were mere steps away from the town, at a point where the road narrowed to a single carriage width. Edmund said he would take his own trunk to the house, and sent the carrier off, but the driveway was long and the exertion tired him swiftly and without warning. He was breathing heavily as he knocked on the door of the parsonage.

  When the door opened, he blinked at the darkness, his gaze suddenly clouded by the contrast with the sunlight, as he peered at the young man who was saying his name. He saw immediately that his host’s face had once been marked by illness, and exposed to the scourges of the most brutal heat. Now only the signs were left behind – fading freckles on a face pocked with scars. Yet, it was still a handsome face in its way, its disfigurements giving its underlying beauty a certain power. Its owner hung back, in the shadows of the hallway.

  ‘Do come out of the sun, Mr Steele,’ he said. ‘It is merciless today. The sea breeze takes the edge off the heat, which means you do not feel it as it beats down on you, but it will punish you if you stay out in it.’

  Edmund wondered whether he really did look so bad that he needed to be sheltered from the sun like some delicate maiden, and it pinched his pride. The penalties of easy London living, he thought; too much claret, too much meat. ‘You must be Mr Hallam,’ he said. ‘I admit I did not expect you to be answering your own door.’

  Theo Hallam laughed; it suited him. ‘I should be working on a sermon. But my housekeeper Martha is fretting over our supper in the kitchen, and as she is sadly overstretched at the moment, it would have been unfair to expect her to look out for you as well.’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, I am pleased to meet you,’ said Edmund, holding out his hand.

  Theo shook it briskly. ‘And I you. But do come out of the heat, Mr Steele, I beg of you.’

  The coolness of the tiled hallway was a relief to Edmund, as was the tea Theo ordered from Martha, who looked with frank curiosity at Edmund as she loudly unloaded the tray. They took tea in the drawing room, an immaculate room, uncluttered but tastefully decorated with paintings and ceramics. Its austere beauty surprised Edmund, for he knew the clergyman lived alone, and he did not link such clean serenity with the habits of a bachelor.

  ‘I must thank you for allowing a perfect stranger a room for the season,’ he said, trying to take in the details of the room without his eyes lingering too much.

  ‘A friend of Mr Venning is a friend of mine,’ said Theo. ‘He has known my family since I was a boy, and went to Oriel College, as I did. And I admit that what he told me of your work piqued my interest. I understand you have medical connections, and that you are interested in the study of the mind.’

  ‘I fear Charles has overrated me,’ said Edmund, with an uneasy laugh. ‘It is true that I count many medical men as my friends, but I do not practise myself. I am comfortable enough – I worked in a City counting-house in my youth, and invested in railways at the right time – so I have the leisure to study what interests me. I have been concerned in one or two cases.’

  ‘And the mind is your area of interest?’ said Theo.

  Edmund swallowed. ‘Yes – that is, it was. I think it is a subject which is in its infancy.’

  A warmth had crept over Theo’s previously neutral expression. ‘You speak of healing the mind, and I the soul. Perhaps we may discuss the way in which these areas overlap.’ There was a faint glow in the young man’s blue eyes; an enthusiasm which Edmund moved quickly to quash.

  ‘If you would be so kind, I am glad to take a rest from it. Do not mention my interest to any of the sea-bathers, I beg you. I wish to be nothing but a tourist here.’ He thought of his study at home – the labelled drawers and cabinets of papers, the neatly written indices. ‘I am of robust health, but my friends tell me that I have over-exerted myself recently. I do not feel it myself – I am quite merry – but I trust their opinions. Mr Venning has instructed me to rest,’ he smiled, ‘and I am sure you can imagine his firmness on the matter.’

  Theo nodded, without any offence. ‘Very well. You are here before most of the incomers – forgive me, the tourists, I should say. “Incomers” sounds so bare and unwelcoming. Well, you are among the first, so you will be settled in before the rest arrive. My aunt, Mrs Quillian, will be here in a few days or so. She comes every season to the town, and always stays at the Albion. She does not care to dwell with her poor parson nephew; she prefers to be surrounded by people.’

  ‘I thought this was a quiet place,’ said Edmund, feeling slightly alarmed.

  Theo laughed. ‘It is not always so. And any increase in numbers is doubly noticeable to its inhabitants. Many of the local people claim to prefer the rough seas and empty streets of January, but we would be ruined without our guests. We are to have gaslight soon, you know, so the modern age has reached us. You may read of the London arrivals in the newspaper – we have the occasional Duke and Marquis, and Mr Dickens, of course.’ He offered Edmund a slice of bread and butter. Edmund took it. The butter was spread thinly, as though it had been spread on, then scraped off, then scraped again.

  ‘Empty streets are unknown to me,’ said Edmund, biting into the bread and discovering it was stale. ‘Perhaps I should have come in January – I would have liked to see that.’ He chewed, slowly. ‘Mr Venning says clean air and pleasant company will restore me to my normal ways.’

  ‘Have you been truly unwell?’ said Theo. The beauty of the question was all in the way he said it: without the sharpness of gossiping curiosity, but with enough steadiness to assure Edmund he had an interested listener.

  Edmund took a gulp of tea to wash down the bread, then put his teacup down, gently, on the small table beside him. ‘Well asked,’ he said. ‘Charles sent me here with good reason. I can see you will be drawing my confessions from me like poison from a wound.’

  ‘Any gifts I have are given me by the Lord, Mr Steele. I will not press you – I do not seek to force confidences – but I am here if there is some burden you wish to discuss. And if we only talk of trivial things, that is welcome too.’

  ‘Do you find it lonely, living in such a small town, without many diversions?’ said Edmund. He caught the slight flinch Theo gave, an almost imperceptible movement.

  ‘I would never say that.’ Theo folded his hands in his lap and sat up, straight-backed. ‘I am where I have been called to be, to serve God’s purpose. I am following my faith. But your company is welcome.’

  It was only later that Edmund realized he had not answered the question.

  It was many years since Edmund had attended Evening Prayer on a weekday, but when his host asked him to, he agreed in a moment. The church of Holy Trinity stood a few steps from the parsonage; built as a chapel-of-ease to the Parish of St Peter-in-Thanet, it had been dedicated only twenty years, Theo informed him. It was a flint construction, black and glittering in the summer light, but within, it changed character from brooding to serene. The interior was a large open space, with white walls. The only division was an elaborately carved rood screen. The sweetish stale scent of incense hung in the air.

  Edmund took his place quietly in the front pew Theo had pointed out, fearing that, fatigued as he was, he might doze off in the warmth of the summer evening. He could not help but think that he would normally have been in his club at this time, but reminded himself of his resolve to be open to new impressions and new places. London had been his whole life since his teens, which was a good while ago, for he was in his late fifties now. With the exception of his intermittent visits to his parents in Cheshire, which had ceased on their deaths, he had known few other places. It was true he had travelled abroad, but those experiences were like mere framed prints on the wall; distant, separate, as though they had happened to other people. Nothing had touched or changed him. Now, suddenly aware of his advancing years, he felt a little ashamed of it.

  He rubbed his eyes. Despite his distance from London, there was much to think of, not least the pressing matter of Mrs Craven and her happiness. He had written a thousand letters to her in his mind, but the outcome was never definite; to ask her for her hand in marriage, or not. Just as he decided on one course, he would think, and yet . . .

  He heard the church door open and close behind him. Theo looked up from his prayer book. Edmund glanced over his shoulder. A lady had entered the church and was standing a few steps from the door, her gaze sweeping over the church and the few worshippers there without any embarrassment. Slim and tall, she was dressed entirely in black. A widow. Edmund thought her striking, but did not want to stare. He turned back to see that Theo had paused in the deep hush. He gazed long at her, before he returned his eyes to the page and continued reading, his voice moving fluidly over the elements of the service.

  The last Amen woke Edmund from his reverie, and he heard the cries of seagulls seeping through the stone walls of the church. When he glanced back, the widow had gone.

  Prayers; supper; bed. These would be the things, Edmund thought, which would soothe his troubled mind. He retired as ten chimed on the grandfather clock at the turn of the stairs, and inspected his room by the light of a candle. It was pristine. There was a neat four-poster bed, with heavy hangings drawn back for him; a wardrobe; a washstand with clean towels, soap, a basin and a ewer filled with cold water. A table had been set out in the bay window with writing equipment, and beside his bed was a chair on which sat, neatly placed, a box of matches and another two candles. There was no dust, no cobwebs; knowing that Martha was Theo’s only servant made Edmund wonder. Already, Theo had struck him as the kind of man who was concerned with details, and he thought he saw the priest’s own hand in the careful p
reparation of the writing desk, and provision of candles. For a moment he wondered if his host had even made the bed with his own hands. He pulled back the top cover and saw that four blankets had been layered on the bed; but then he had been warned about the fierce sea breezes.

  His host’s room was situated at the other end of the hall. Edmund heard his feet travelling the length of the corridor, the boards squeaking with every light step.

  He settled down at the writing desk, where everything had been prepared for him, dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to write:

  My dear Venning,

  I have arrived, and find the young man very much as you told me he would be: warm, and hospitable. But there are depths to him, Charles, as you said. This evening we passed his study door and I glimpsed within a portrait of Saint Sebastian. It was a mournful sight, that saintly face full of suffering, his sides pierced with many arrows. Mr Hallam closed the door as soon as he saw my eyes upon it. It is clear that he has not taken a role in the church for the sake of a profession, or convenience; but I will not complain of his intensity. His fireside is warm, his port and brandy good, and, for now, he is short on lectures for a clergyman. I see nothing to trouble me yet.

  Did you really only send me here to ‘recover my spirits’ as you so charmingly put it? I blame myself for confiding in you that, as a bachelor, long past fifty, I look dully at my life and am weighed down by the burden of my accumulated wisdom. Are you giving me a rest cure, as you claimed, or another diversion?

  I doubt I will receive a full explanation by return. I will breathe in the sea air and smile benignly, and pray that I get through this ‘holiday’ of mine alive.

  Your good friend, Edmund Steele

  Edmund left the letter open so that the black ink, glossy in the candlelight, would sink into the paper. Then he got up and walked around the room, not worrying too much about the creaking boards, for his host was way down the corridor. He had shied away from mentioning Mrs Craven in the letter, though Charles Venning and his wife had encouraged the match. He thought of his father, as he often did these last months, and wondered if he had disappointed Alban Steele by not being as pure in intention as him. It was in his recent studies that he had sought to close this gap, and to add some seriousness to a life that had been full of trivialities. He had also wished to examine the darkness which had haunted his father; the shadow which, despite Alban’s happiness, had yet come over him sometimes.